It's Always the Quiet Ones

Let's say, hypothetically speaking, that you turned in some important paperwork to your boss or teacher, and on that paperwork you had doodled pictures of yourself wearing either a halo or devil horns, and a clown floating in the clouds above you, looking on.

Do you suppose your boss/teacher might then call you in for a little chat? You know, just to see how the ol' home life was going? Maybe see if you needed anything, support and/or prescription-wise?

Because, as you may have guessed, this really isn't a purely hypothetical question.

I don't know what's going on here, but I fear for the dog's future.

In fact, from the looks of things I'd say a few of these wreckerators are one more "That's Karl with a Q" away from a destructive binge that ends with them pole-vaulting the counter and riding the floor waxer out in a blaze of glory.

"Go ahead, punk. Tell me you want sprinkles again."

So here's an idea, bakeries: Why not hire a psychologist to come in every now and then, you know, just to browse through the cakes? That way, when something like this pops up:

He or she will know it's time to schedule another stress seminar.


Or even to stage some kind of intervention:

"I don't get it; all I asked for was a birthday cake!"

Or - and I'm just spit-balling here - maybe to alert the proper authorities:

Um. Yeeeeah. When dark oily shadow blobs start sweet talking the customers, I'd say another sexual harassment seminar might be in order.

Don't worry, Amy W., Katie M., Magic Girl, Krystal K., & Kate F.; I hear they serve cake at those.